My Dream

I am a wet mass of clay without a skilled potter,
I am a pretty potted plant without the proper water.
Although, I wish I was a seed. I dream of that day,
When I grow. Seemingly out of nothing, I finally may, 
Raise my aged hands toward the heaven’s high.
My branches, my fingers, will stretch for the sky.
The downside, though, is the shadows they will cast.
Dark shadows in a dark night, that will always seem to last,
Forever. Never ending into nothing.
But I will be closer to the sky, so at least that is something.